Perfect Collision

by Lina Andersson

  The third convention had been pretty darn slow, but I’d done some smaller stuff. Quite often on heavily tattooed men in their forties, and some of them asked for dates. I was very happy to have Sami with me; he could glare almost as well as Dad could.

  I got some more job on the following ones, and by this one, the eighth, I was starting to recognize a lot of the other artists.

  I was scribbling when a woman in her thirties came up to our table. She looked through Sami’s portfolio, watched him ink for a while, and then picked up my portfolio. Sami had suggested I add some drawings to it. I had, but I didn’t like doing it. Anyone who know anything about tattooing knew that even if you were the most brilliant artist in the world, you could still be a shit tattoo artist.

  The woman looked at me and the sketchbook I was holding.

  “What are you drawing right now?”

  I turned my book around to show her. She leaned forward and took it from me. I’d just been playing around and made flowers and butterflies in the shape of a skull.

  “Can you tattoo this?” she asked, and I nodded.

  It was just flowers and butterflies in a pattern, and I’d done a lot of both. The tattoo was more about design than technique.

  “Who’s your trainer?” she asked, and that’s when I figured out she knew more than the average visitor. I pointed at Sami, who turned around. “Can she do this?” She held up the sketchbook for him.

  “Yes,” he said and turned back to the guy he was working on.

  The woman handed back my sketchbook, and took off her jacket before holding out her hand. “I’m Alice.”

  “Violet,” I said and took it. “Please, sit down.”

  She showed me where she wanted it on the inside of her lower left arm and told me to color it as I saw fit. I was pretty amazed she put so much trust in me, but I wasn’t going to argue with her if she was giving me this opportunity.

  “How long have you been doing this?” she asked when I started to shave her arm.

  “Almost three years.”

  She gave me a surprised look. “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  I did a very basic stencil, just for the outer lines of the shape. There wouldn’t be much black in the outlines, but I needed to get them anyway to have lines to follow with the coloring. Then I tore the sketch from my book and taped it up on the light.

  When I started on the coloring, I realized it was the most fun I’d ever had doing a tattoo. It was all me; I didn’t have to think about things. I’d done the drawing and if something didn’t really work as a tattoo I could just change it, and no one could argue I wasn’t staying true to the original.

  I’d done things of my own before—like the Baxter family ink—but I hadn’t been as comfortable with the machine then. This was just… pure fun. When I sprayed and cleaned it off for the last time, I felt a kiss on the top of my head.

  “That’s my girl,” Sami mumbled.

  “It’s truly amazing,” Alice said. “Did you have fun?”

  “Yes,” I admitted and looked at her. “Are you a tattoo artist?”

  “No,” she laughed, “but I’m married to one. I saw you had the technique and the eye for it. I wanted to see what you could do if I let you loose, and you didn’t let me down.”

  I took a picture of the tattoo, and she asked me to sign the sketch and if she could keep it. I agreed and after handing me the money, she was gone. I sat down and turned to Sami.

  “I think that was the most fun I’ve had since I started.”

  “Always more fun when you get to do your own stuff. Make sure you get that picture printed and add it to the portfolio. Best design you’ve ever done.”

  Later that day, I was back to sketching when the competitions started. I grabbed some money to go get me and Sami something to eat before we had to pack up for the day. I’d been really eager to see the competitions before, but they were starting to bore me. Sami’d won a couple of things and that was cool of course, but otherwise it was mostly the same. A man yelling in a microphone while pointing at tattoos. When I came back, Sami gave me a strange smile.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Start packing your stuff together. They’re closing in half an hour.”

  I was mid packing when I heard ‘Violet at Wicked Ink’ from the stage, and I turned to Sami.

  “What did they say?”

  “You just won runner up in small color of the day,” he said with a big smile. “What are you waiting for? Get up there!”

  “On stage?” I was not good at doing stuff in public and was seriously starting to feel sick.

  “Violet from Wicked Ink, get up here!” They yelled from stage, and to avoid thinking about it—which would surely make me puke—I took off.

  I walked through the crowd and had, like, tunnel vision. When I reached the stage, a guard gave me a strange look.

  “I’m Violet,” I said, and after a confirming nod from Alice, he let me through.

  “And you are?” the speaker asked with a confused smile.

  “I’m Violet from Wicked Ink,” I mumbled and really hoped he wouldn’t shove the mike in my face. Which he of course did.

  “Violet from Wicked Ink, since everyone is wondering—how old are you?” Which I figured was the most uninteresting question he could’ve asked me.

  “Nineteen.”

  “Nineteen?” He pointed at Alice’s arm. “And already this good.” He then handed me a piece of paper and a small trophy. “Here’s your prize. I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you again if you’re already this brilliant.”

  “Thank you,” I muttered and tried to get off stage, but apparently I had to go to the back and wait there. Alice smiled at me.

  “Sorry, couldn’t help myself. It’s so good.”

  “No,” I shook my head. “It’s okay, I’m just… I’m not good with crowds looking at me.”

  “Need to practice, girl,” Alice said and squeezed my shoulders. “Think you’ll be on stage again.”

  Someone handed me a Coke, and I took a few sips while trying to figure out when they’d let me leave. Once all the winners in the different categories were announced, the jury came backstage. I knew them all. Or not knew, but I knew who they were, and they all shook hands with me. Which was pretty cool.

  “Who’s your trainer?” Rudy, a guy I’d admired for years, asked me.

  “Sami.”

  “Should’ve known,” he said with a smile and shook his head. “That fucker always had an eye for talent. You’re in good hands, girl.”

  “I know.”

  “How long have you been inking?”

  “Three years.”

  “I’ll come and talk to you and Sami tomorrow.” He nodded towards my trophy. “Put it on your table. It’ll draw customers.”

  When I got back to our table, Sami gave me a big hug. “So proud of you, kiddo.”

  I called Dad the second I walked into the hotel room, and that’s when what’d happened really hit me, and I started to cry.

  “Baby, what’s wrong?”

  “I won second prize!” I manged to snivel.

  “Then why are you crying? Fuck, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

  “I’m happy, Dad!”

  “So fucking proud of you girl. What was the ink?”

  I tried to describe it, but eventually I said I’d show him pictures when I came home the next day, and he promised to pick me up. Once I’d hung up, I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  I’d won second prize for best small color of the day.

  That was just so beyond anything I’d imagined. The fact that it was for a tattoo that was all my own—my design, my coloring, and my work—it made it even more amazing.

  -o0o—

  Bear laughed as Vi came running towards him at the airport. She’d been gone for just over a week, but her first win ever seemed to make her face glow. He caught her and lifted her up.

  “My baby girl!”

  “I
won!”

  “I know,” he said and kissed her cheek. “You told me when you called, but I’m proud as fuck, Katze.”

  He put her down and gave Sami a hug.

  “Heard you won as well,” he said.

  “Yeah, but I felt like a fucking dad when JB won,” he smiled and looked like a proud dad when he said it. “It was a great tattoo. She earned that win.”

  Sami took off to take a cab home, and Bear took Vi to the clubhouse. Mitch was the first who met her.

  “How’s my future sister-in-law?”

  “Good!” She gave him a hug.

  “Any chance I can convince you to switch brothers, since he’s locked up and everything?”

  “Unless you want me to beat the shit outta you, you shut the fuck up,” Bear said and pushed Mitch away from Vi.

  It was all a joke, he knew it. Mitch would rather cut off his arm than hit on his brother’s girl. There were few people Mitch looked up to, but Mac was one of them. He honestly didn’t think Mac understood how much.

  “Can I talk to you, Mitch?” Vi asked. “It’s about taxes and… other things I don’t understand. I was hoping you could help me.”

  “Sure, I’ll help you.”

  Bear turned to Vi. “Mel’s in the kitchen. We need to have a talk to Mitch, then he’s all yours.”

  Mitch’d asked for some time in the Chapel with them. He’d spent the six months all over the fucking country talking to one treasurer after another. Initially, it was to wrap his head around the transfers and bookkeeping of the club, but then because he’d come up with a smarter and safer way to do the books. And while setting up the new system he’d found some discrepancies.

  That was the exact word he used when the three of them sat by the table in the chapel twenty minutes later.

  “Say what?” Brick barked.

  “Some irregularities.”

  “I fucking know what discrepancies means!” Brick almost roared, not being happy about his son obviously thinking he was an idiot. “What I’m asking is what the fuck you’ve found?”

  “I think there’s money missing.”

  “And when you say ‘missing?’” Bear asked. “Because I think both me and your dad had a hunch that was what you meant when you said there were discrepancies.”

  “I think someone is skimming some of the transfers.”

  “Skimming,” Brick sighed.

  “It means…”

  “Fucks sake, I know what fucking skimming is!” And now Brick was yelling. “You might be smart, but that doesn’t mean everyone in your presence is an idiot.”

  “Sorry, just… you know.”

  “Shut up while you still have an unbroken nose,” Bear laughed. “Do you know who and how?”

  “No, not yet. But I know it’s not from this club and it’s not Englewood, and I know how they’ve done it.”

  “When did you notice it?”

  “I started to suspect it about a month ago. Some things looked odd, and then I compared what we’d sent—”

  “Skip to the good parts,” Brick interrupted him.

  “It’s not us or Englewood. I thought I’d talk to their treasurer in Englewood, Duke, he’s good. He could help me figure out exactly who it is.”

  “Go there. Figure it out,” Bear said. “I’ll call Englewood now, you wait here.”

  “Actually,” Bear said to Brick, “Vi wanted to talk him. She’s waiting outside.”

  “I’ll go and find her,” Mitch said and stood up. “Let me know what Englewood say and where you two land on this.”

  “Good work,” Brick said to his son. “I might not look happy at the moment, but good work. Really. We’ll take care of this, just go up to Englewood and find out who’s doing it.”

  Mitch nodded.

  Bear knew they wouldn’t get much further, and all they could do for now was wait while Mitch and Duke found out who was doing it. They might know what ‘discrepancies’ and ‘skimming’ were, but they couldn’t help him with the traces.

  He waited while Brick talked to the guys up in Englewood, and he noticed Vi talking to Mitch. She was starting to make a lot of money and needed help with how to figure out her taxes. He’d suggested asking Mitch, and even told her to ask him to do the books for her. It wouldn’t be hard for him, and he’d do it for peanuts.

  He found her an hour later in the office, where she was tattooing the leather seat of a bar stool. She looked up at him, and when he pointed at the chair without saying anything, she shrugged.

  “It was Wolf’s idea.”

  He walked over and took a look. It was the Marauder’s mark, and having it tattooed on the chair was brilliant.

  “Gonna do the rest of them?”

  “Thought I’d try to do different types, but all Marauders stuff. Think it’ll look cool.”

  “Tattooed chairs at a biker club. It’s not cool, Katze, it’s fucking perfect.” He sat down to watch her work. “If you ever get tired of inking, you could probably get a business going doing that for clubs.”

  “Nah!” She shook her head. “It’s not the same.”

  She really seemed okay. She missed Mac, he knew she did, but at the same time he couldn’t help thinking it might not have been an entirely bad thing he got that prison sentence.

  The conventions and her traveling around with Sami had helped Vi grow. If Mac’d been around, she wouldn’t have done them with the intensity she had now. If the latest one, with the win, was any indication of her future, she could make a name for herself. In general, he was really fucking proud about how she’d handled it all. She’d grown a lot. Matured.

  When she was done with the chair, she started to clean up her things, carefully packed them away, and they went home. He was surprised when April met them in the hallway. He’d had no idea she’d be there, but he was happy to see her. He liked when she surprised him.

  “I made a dinner to celebrate Violet!” she said with a big smile and gave Vi a hug. “I’ve told everyone at work I know someone who’s won a prize at a tattoo convention. Not sure they were as impressed as I was, though.”

  “This is great!” Vi laughed. “Thank you.”

  Bear gave her a kiss and leaned his forehead to hers. “Thank you.”

  Fucking hell, he loved this woman!

  -o0o—

  The first six months inside had been a steep learning curve for Mac, and he was glad he had members with him who’d done time before. People might think they knew shit about being inside because they’d seen some prison movies, but it was nothing like that.

  When they arrived, they were tested for everything, everything, and he’d informed Vi he was clean at her first visit. Her only response was that he fucking better be, since they’d never used a condom.

  The ingenuity among the inmates blew him away, and Bull was a fucking MacGyver when it came to creating weapons. The man could do a shank out of pretty much anything. It wasn’t just with the common things, like toothbrushes or razor blades—he did one with a magazine! The way that man could come up with weapons scared Mac a bit, but he was glad to have him on his side.

  It had surprised him when he caught Bull melting chocolate, but apparently that could be used as a weapon, too. Melted chocolate, especially if had caramel, stuck to your face and burned. It was fucking insane—like napalm. Melted sugar poured down a man’s throat could easily kill him.

  It wasn’t just the weapons. The different ideas on how make the stay more pleasurable were endless as well. There was no smoking after lights out, and he’d already seen five different designs of homemade lighters, so the guys could smoke in their cell at nights.

  Then there were the prison pussies, and not only the guys who gave up their assholes for protection, but the fake ones as well. One of the smarter was a plastic bag with baby oil inside a tightly wrapped blanket. Mac was happy just with the baby oil, but Bull was big on the plastic bags and blankets. The rustling sound from Bull’s fake pussy was a good indication he was jerking off, which meant Mac
could avoid getting out of his bed and actually seeing him doing it.

  Although any idea of trying to be private or shy about shit was shot out of the window the first week. People had fights, took dumps, fucked, and jerked off all over the fucking place—with no regard to who might be close by. Despite the fact he’d grown up and been a part of a biker club, it did get to him on occasions. He’d seen people fuck more than once, but there was usually at least one woman involved and in the center of the fucking. There were no women inside.

  He quickly learned it was impossible to go through a sentence and always be a humble, nice guy. Bull had told him straight up he couldn’t do that, and how it was important to gain respect as quickly as possible. It was better to take charge than have some huge fucking dude test you.

  There were fights every day. Every single day, and most of them were never noticed by guards—those morons didn’t know half of what was going on inside. A fight could be about anything, sitting at the wrong table, using the wrong shower, what program to watch on the TV, the fact that a guy was giving another guy a look. Anything!

  Winning a fight was one of the best ways to get respect, and the second week inside Mac took a big guy to the ‘The Paint.’ The Paint was pretty much what was called ‘The Ring’ at the club. Just an area in a semi-hidden corner of gen pop. Mac’d beaten the shit outta him, and things calmed down around him after that.

  Being a member in a club helped. People had your back from the get-go, but it was rough seeing other inmates trying to find those people, and what they gave up just to get some sense of security. But he couldn’t make that his problem.

  Shakedowns were a regular thing. When the guards came yelling, they had to put everything down and step out of the cell, so if you kept stuff hidden it was best to keep them hidden at all times when they weren’t being used. Luckily, Bull was good at that, too. He scraped the paint off the walls in the common areas, made a hole in the wall of their cell, and covered it with fake cement and scraped off paint.

  During a shakedown, the water was turned off to prevent inmates from flushing things down the toilet. On more than one occasion, the turned-off water became a warning. Someone noticed the water wasn’t working, and the alarm went through the cellblock within minutes.